But clearly she hadn’t been worried enough.
Because not only was Princess Genevieve standing next to Grand Duchess Agathe and Duchess Mathilde, but so was Prince Christian.
Okay, it wasn’t a technical walk of shame. Hours had elapsed since they’d exchanged a final, passionate kiss in that dingy bar office. The feeling of all eyes being glued to Mallory, though, couldn’t be just her imagination.
Had he—oh, God—left a hickey on her neck? Not that they’d know it was Christian’s…although the man’s lips were talented enough to mark her with his initials.
Or were they staring because her stupid redhead complexion was flaming scarlet just from looking at the crown prince? From remembering his touch, his body, the sounds he made as he thrust into her…
It was not a mussed-up, virile Christian in front of her this morning. The prince was impeccably turned out in a tailored gray suit, tie, French cuffs with the glint of silver at his wrists, polished black loafers, and a pin of the royal crest on his lapel. He looked official. Untouchable.
Which was probably for the best.
Mallory dropped into a curtsy. “Good morning, Your Highness. Your Highness. Your Grace. Your Grace.”
“Good morning, Kelsey. Miss Wishner.”
Sheesh.
Even though she’d been the one to speak the greeting, the grand duchess had acknowledged her sister first. Due to the whole princess thing.
Mallory had expected it, but it was one of a hundred tiny, daily reminders that she was nobody here. That she didn’t count. That she wasn’t important. Not compared to the rest of the residents of Alcarsa Palace.
How could she contemplate staying for good in a place that made her feel invisible?
“I’ve never been in here before.” Kelsey turned in a slow circle, taking in all the portraits crowded, some three rows high, on the walls. “It’s…ah…gloomy. I mean, the candlelight’s an evocative touch, but it also gives off a haunted house vibe.”
“Exactly.” Christian beamed at her. “Genny and I have said the same thing. It’s creepy in here.”
The grand duchess scowled at her grandson. “Some of these paintings are centuries old. The low light helps to preserve them. You should revere your ancestors, not be skittish around them.”
“Gran, I’ll curtsy to each one of them, but I will always be freaked out by this Hall of Dead People,” Genevieve said.
“Enough. Stop making light in what is a very serious moment.”
Uh-oh. Very serious? How much trouble were they in?
Christian beckoned with one hand. “Miss Wishner, please step forward.”
She both didn’t want to look at him but knew she had to look at him. But it felt like each glance lingered on Christian a few seconds too long. Was it noticeable to anyone else? Or were they so used to people staring at the prince that it was no big deal?
This was sooooo awkward.
Mallory squared her shoulders, bracing for a rebuke. Then the grand duchess motioned to a footman, who came forward carrying an enormous sword, the hilt encrusted in gemstones. He handed it to Christian.
The grand duchess cleared her throat. “Miss Wishner, your actions, your strength of character, have been nothing short of exemplary. You have been a steadfast ally to Princess Kelsey throughout her entire life, not to mention an eminently appropriate role model. For that alone, the House of Villani owes you a debt of gratitude.”
If the woman had said that the reflection pool in the South Garden was about to be filled with magical, wish-granting frogs, Mallory could not have been more surprised. “Thank you, but there’s no debt at all. She’s my sister. No birth certificate can change that. I love her.”
After a nod of appreciation, the older woman continued. “Even more remarkable is your recent bravery in dealing with the aftermath of an attack that never should’ve involved you. You have upheld with grace and courage in the most egregious of circumstances. For all of these things, the House of Villani honors you with the title of baroness.”
Sword horizontal across both hands, Christian transferred it to Mallory. Not expecting its weight, her arms bobbled before straightening. “The Crown thanks you for your extraordinary service.”
Was…was that a wink?
Omigosh.
Was he giving her some coded message about…about…their sex last night? In front of his entire family? Well, that both sent a spiral of warmth down her abdomen and another flush of heat to her cheeks.
And it completely distracted her from the overwhelming gift being presented. A title? For Mallory Belinda Wishner from Grand Oak, Michigan? A title for doing nothing but loving her sister and not making a fuss about, well, almost dying at the hands of a foreign assassin?
Christian leaned over. The backs of his fingers grazed the bare skin above the neckline of her dress. Accordingly, her nipples perked right up at the touch. She looked down to discover him pinning on a stunning brooch. From upside down, it was hard to make out the details of the design, but the pearls, diamonds, and rubies were easy to spot.
“I had that personally designed for you. It is the crest of the royal family. Because that is what you are to us now, and forever. Part of the House of Villani.” The grand duchess waved her arm grandly to encompass all the spooky paintings. Then she scooched Christian aside and bestowed a formal, double-cheek kiss on Mallory.
“It’s beautiful. I’m honored. Thank you.” As she stammered what was hopefully enough of a response, Duchess Mathilde and Princess Genevieve also delivered the traditional kisses to her.
That left only Christian. And when he moved back in front of her, those purple eyes darkened as he gazed down at her a moment too long before brushing his lips across her skin.
And over his broad shoulders, Mallory caught the narrowed gaze of the grand duchess, watching them.
With suspicion?
No. Merely rampant paranoia escalated by a hangover. Not to mention that Agathe was always a bit scary.
Kelsey hip-bumped him out of the way to throw her arms around Mallory. “Congratulations. Now you can wear a tiara to the ball!”
Her sister sounded like the animated mice in Disney’s Cinderella. Excited…and ridiculous. “I’m just a lady-in-waiting. I’m not going.”
Princess Genevieve tsked at her. “Of course you’re going. Did you not hear Gran? You’re not ‘just’ anything. You are a baroness of the realm.”
“Look, I don’t want to go, either.” Christian grimaced. “It’s going to be nothing but a parade of women sniffing around to be candidates for the role of my wife. Dreadful. Boring.” A corner of his mouth quirked up. “I’ll bet you.”
Another reminder of last night? Why was the man torturing her? “What’s the bet?”
“That you can’t find a single woman worthy of a first date with me. One who isn’t social climbing, vapid, title-chasing, or pretentious.”
“Christian.” Duchess Mathilde clucked her tongue. “You must marry. Sooner rather than later. If you accept the notion, it will be easier. Like getting a chiropractic adjustment. You mustn’t tense up and fight it.”
“Have your fun. Make your bet. As long as you remember,” the grand duchess said sternly, “that you are expected to announce an engagement shortly. That you should wed in the next year. And that your bride will be no less than an appropriately vetted member of royalty.”
“I’m not proposing to anyone at the damn ball,” he growled. “No engagement without a decent first date, either.”
“I’ll help—in service to the Crown,” Mallory said with a fast dip of a curtsy. “But what will I win if I do find one?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll come up with a suitable reward.” And the incorrigible prince winked again.
This time, it wasn’t paranoia that prickled up Mallory’s spine. It was the unmistakably icy glare from his grand
mother. No doubt about it—she’d picked up on something…different between them.
And all the titles and jewel-encrusted brooches in the world wouldn’t make Mallory a suitable match for her grandson.
Which Mallory already knew. And accepted. But it rankled her equality-for-all American heart nonetheless.
So she winked back and said, “Game on, Your Highness.”
Chapter Four
This is my job now, Mallory reminded herself. Room and board, a salary, and free medical. From the best doctors in the whole country. She knew that from firsthand experience.
Her old job—not the dream job she’d been scheduled to start in Manhattan, but the one she’d had in Michigan—had been busy. Phones ringing all day. Constant chatter. A smell of burned coffee that had permeated the institutional gray carpet that matched the gray cubicle dividers. There’d always been a sense of urgency, a knowledge that even if they hit their goal fundraising number for the foundation, it’d just be increased the next quarter.
This room, her sister’s office in Alcarsa Palace, was scented by the enormous bouquets of freesia and honeysuckle in crystal vases on the fireplace mantel and on the desk that Kelsey treated like a museum piece. Like everything else in the palace, its white curved legs looked old and dainty and unspeakably fragile. The gold trim along every edge and cutout did sort of scream irreplaceable antique.
But, as Mallory argued with Kelsey every time they came in here, what good was a desk that couldn’t also act as a table, buffet and, in a pinch, a bed?
Okay, not a bed. A place to have sex.
Yes. Desks now—apparently—made her think of sex.
Which was awkward. Because the last thing Mallory wanted to do was look at her sister-of-the-heart sitting in the high-backed, white upholstered chair behind the desk and remember having the best sex of her life with Kelsey’s actual brother.
At her old job, Mallory had never thought about sex. Ergo, it was irrefutably doable to push away the memories of the sweat beading in the light tangle of blond chest hair as Christian—
No.
Best to remind herself that she’d clocked in for the day. Even if she was half draped across a sage green chaise lounge, it was work. Even though her coffee was in a Sevres china cup patterned with holly and oak leaves delivered by an actual maid, it was work.
Across from her, Sir Evan, Kelsey’s private secretary, shuffled through the binder he’d spread across a footstool. “Lady Mallory, perhaps we should—”
To cut him off, Mallory cleared her throat and did an index finger/eyebrow lift combo. No. Hell, no. OMFG, no. Nonononono.
Whew.
She hadn’t said any of that out loud.
“Sir Evan, I’d prefer it if you did not use my title when we’re alone.”
Patting the lavender tie that bisected his starched white shirtfront, he said solemnly, “It is a great honor that must be recognized.”
“The gift of it was an honor. One I’m humbled by. One that I do not feel particularly worthy of, so please respect my wishes.” There. She’d channeled a bit of Princess Genevieve’s formality and imperiousness. That ought to drive the point home.
Mallory strutted across the pink-and-lilac swirls of the Oriental rug to yes, annoy Kelsey by propping her butt on the corner of the desk. She leveled a cool stare that—hopefully—said check and mate to Sir Evan.
Except that he met her coolness with a far more practiced version. It was like those energy beams meeting in the final battle between Harry and Voldemort.
“When Princess Kelsey begged us not to call her ‘Your Highness,’ you told her to, and I quote, ‘take the good with the bad and stop resisting all of the awesome.’”
Damn it. Mallory crossed her arms over her pale-green blouse. “Did I say that?”
“Does it sound like something I’d make up on the fly, as it were?”
Sir Evan was younger than the other stuffed suits that orbited around the royal family. He didn’t take himself too seriously. He also had the patience of a saint to put up with Kelsey’s nonstop pushback against tradition, protocol, and the need to dress, ah, suitably for events.
But although his English was very, very good, Mallory couldn’t deny that it was unlikely he’d string together such a sassy Americanism of a sentence.
“Geez. You two. Polite arguing is the worst kind. As bad as brain freeze in the middle of sucking down a milkshake.” Kelsey squeezed her eyes shut, wincing.
“My apologies, Your Highness.”
“Sorry,” Mallory muttered. And she was, mostly. Again, this was a job. One in which her main responsibility was smoothing over every little detail of Kelsey’s life, not ruffling any feathers.
At her old job, she wouldn’t have bickered so petulantly in front of her supervisor.
How was her baby pseudo-sister now her supervisor?
“Since Sir Evan’s not allowed to be anything but polite to us, I’ll be the bad guy.” Kelsey picked up a Venetian glass paperweight, a dozen different shades of purple bubbles trapped inside a pale-green orb. Then she tapped it—hard—against Mallory’s hip. “Mal, you talked the talk when I didn’t want to be a princess. Told me to suck it up. Well, now it’s time for you to walk the walk. Be a freaking lady.” And her tone was…well…stern.
Huh.
She’d expected a tad more empathy from Kelsey. Talk about being the one person in the world who knew exactly how weird it was to go from being a run-of-the-mill American to European nobility in the blink of an eye. And yet now she was throwing off a quite royal attitude.
Fine.
Mallory could be professional. Detached.
Fully immersed in the task at hand and not at all running her fingers along the edge of the desk, remembering how the thick, rolled edge of the one at the bar had bitten into her thighs as Christian thrust into her…
“If we’re all to be focusing on our roles, Your Highness,” and yes, perhaps a bit of attitude came through as Mallory snarked out the title with far too much emphasis, “then you should be up for another round of flash cards.”
Kelsey pressed her palms to her eyes. “I thought prepping for the ball meant discussing hair and jewelry options. Not pop quizzes on random facts about half the kingdom.”
“Only a mere third of the nobility in the kingdom,” Sir Evan said in a jovial tone. “And the hair and jewelry deliberation will occur this afternoon. I believe Duchess Mathilde will be bringing a few pieces for consideration that belonged to your mother.”
Kelsey’s hand shot to her throat and the peridot necklace hanging there she wore as often as possible. It, too, had belonged to Queen Serena, intended as an heirloom to pass on to her daughter. “That’s so thoughtful of her. She’s always doing little things like that to make me feel like family, instead of a visitor, in the palace. What does she like?”
He circled his hand in the air. “In regards to…”
“I should do something nice for Aunt Mathilde in return. But I barely know anything about her. Does she like a particular kind of dessert I could make? Flowers?” After letting out a long sigh, Kelsey tipped her head back, staring up at the white molding along the pale-green walls. “I know, I know. The palace chef can make her better cookies than me. And the palace gardeners probably put her favorite flowers in her room every day.”
Mallory hated to see Kelsey look so defeated. Her giving, joy-filled personality was her hallmark.
It was Mallory’s province to be the protocol buffer. To ensure that Kelsey’s spontaneous vivaciousness was reined in just enough, as princess. To indeed remind her, most of the time, to walk the royal walk.
But she didn’t like this subdued, rule-following version at all. And this job she’d been so dismissive of all morning was no longer a mere chore. The weight of shoring up, supporting a princess, the third in line to rule the kingdom, almost bowed Mall
ory’s shoulders.
Nobody else was better suited than her for that responsibility. Nobody knew Kelsey better. Or cared more about her. About Kelsey-the-person, not just the title.
Shifting sideways, Mallory picked up a heavy letter opener topped with the shape of a golden peacock and tapped it against the blotter. “If they do put her favorite flowers in every day, then I’ll bet the duchess would enjoy a change of pace with something different. I’ll snoop around. Gather all sorts of personal trivia about her.”
The smile of gratitude Kelsey shot her was blinding. “Thanks.”
Sir Evan added, “Being immensely wealthy and privileged doesn’t mean one appreciates the gesture of a surprise gift any less. I imagine the duchess will treasure whatever you give, because it will come from her beloved niece.”
And there went Mallory’s thoughts again. Triggered into a comparison. Because the crown prince hadn’t required eight-hundred-thread-count sheets and a pillowy bed to ravish her. He’d been…satisfied, in every possible way, in an unassuming room without any fancy frills. No pricey booze, just beer. A bleeding arm. Talk about no-frills.
Yet that night would be a memory Mallory would, yes, treasure for the rest of her life.
OMG, what was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she go more than three minutes without flashing back to Christian?
Kelsey popped out of the chair and moved to the built-in bookcase with a sleek TV screen flanked by ornate music boxes. “Pep talk received and appreciated. I’m ready to buckle down. Mostly because I’ve run out of coffee and any other possible distractions.”
Um. Well. That was, technically, untrue.
Mallory had a distraction for her. A big one.
Because she had yet to tell Kelsey what had happened with Christian. Which was eight kinds of weird.
They told each other everything. And after dates, they spilled the juicy details in a matter of hours. It was as if an encounter didn’t, well, count until the other sister had weighed in.
A tryst with Christian, though, was complicated. And forbidden.
Complicated, because if any word leaked about it, the ensuing press would be horrible. Not to mention pointless to suffer through, what with the zero chance of a future together.
Tempting the Prince (Sexy Misadventures of Royals) Page 5